


Of Angels and Demons

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adam!Aden, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Anael!Lincoln, Bobby!Raven, Castiel!Lexa, Chuck!Luna, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dean!Clarke, F/F, Lilith!Nia, Sam and Jo!Bell and Octavia, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Ugh, Uriel!Titus, Zachariah!Roan, fuck my life, i accidentally deleted the original post so yeah this is a repost, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: An angel of the Lord took Clarke Griffin’s soul from Hell and raised her from the dead. She is then tasked with preventing the rise of Lucifer and stopping the Apocalypse.Alternatively: Clarke is the Righteous Woman, Lexa is one of the angelic Host, and really, neither of them asked for this.(Or, you know, a botched Supernatural AU.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.  
> ***Full of shit.

 

These are the facts:

  1. Clarke Griffin, in life, was a stubborn little shit.
  2. Clarke Griffin died, and should remain dead, because that is what dead people are supposed to do.
  3. Clarke Griffin, because she’s  _a stubborn little shit_ , of course ignores that and did  _not_ remain dead.



 

****

 

Clarke Griffin’s story is like other stories, having a beginning, a middle part, and an end.

No big deal.

Except, well,  _someone_  decided that her ending is not  _the_  end after all. (And Clarke—for the life and death of her—can’t quite figure what that  _someone_  really wants with her.)

 

****

 

(The middle part of Clarke’s story was also a bit problematic, really, filled with every creature of both the heavens and the underworld. Of course, it’s supposed to be a classic hit, the tried-and-tested formula—good and evil, right and wrong, virtue and sin—a battle as old as time.

It’s exactly as it should be, with each side trying and trying and trying to overcome the other.

But then there’s the fact that sometimes, the evil is plain evil is not evil is good is bad is trying to be good is trying to be bad is not really bad is not really good is not really, really bad, maybe, just trying to do the right thing but ends up doing the wrong thing and the wrong thing and the wrong thing and sometimes the right thing but then it leads to more problems and less solutions and more and more and more problems—

Though, well, that’s neither here nor there, is it? Right. Wrong. Maybe.)

 

****

 

These are the facts:

  1. Clarke Griffin spends twenty years saying no.
  2. Clarke Griffin, on the twenty-first year, picks up the knife without a word and wields it as if it was a brush, her grip cold and steady, every stroke a work of art made in blood instead of paint, every line infused with rage and horror and despair, every splatter inked in red and red and  _red_.
  3. Clarke Griffin, on the forty-first year, gasps a shuddering breath and rises from her own grave, dirty and grimy and angry and thirsty for blood.



 

****

 

Octavia, Bellamy, and Raven are unconscious, lying prone on the barn’s floor. Clarke’s blue eyes are full of suspicion and barely restrained anger. “Who the hell are you?” she bites out. Her glare is focused on the brown-haired woman standing before her.

“I am an angel of the Lord.” The woman’s expression does not change. “And I’m the one who saved you from eternal damnation.”

 

****

 

These are the facts:

  1. Clarke Griffin is an orphan.
  2. Raven Reyes and Octavia and Bellamy Blake, also orphans, are the closest thing to a family she’s got left.
  3. Clarke Griffin will do anything for her family.



 

****

 

Clarke looks at a mirror, and she lifts a hand to touch her reflection. She’s the same she’s ever been, at least on the outside: same stupid face, same stupid blue eyes, same stupid blonde hair.

But inside?

Inside, nothing is the same.

 

Inside, she might as well have been an inferno herself, burning and burning and burning with all her shame, all her desperation, all her fears . . . burning and burning and burning with everything she can’t ever say, every dirty little secret, every filthy sin. She absolutely cannot let her family know just what she has become.

 

After all, she can barely admit it to herself.

 

 

(The fact is she’s a monster, and she deserves the pit.

 

She  _belongs_  in the pit.)

 

****

 

An angel.

Clarke Griffin has always believed there’s some sort of higher power. And she knows there’s a god—a  _God_ , even. In her line of work, she’s encountered all dark creatures and demons and shit. So, of course, it’s logical to think that, well, some sort of counterparts for those also exist.

And, also, it’s kind of a necessity to believe that what they’re doing isn’t just a monumental waste of time and that there’s some sort of  _after_ following the  _end_.

And yeah, okay, Clarke believes they exist—cherubs and seraphim and the Heavenly Host. The whole shebang. Whatever. That doesn’t mean she ever thought she’d actually get to  _interact_  with one.

 

Clarke’s been through a lot of crazy stuff in her short life, but this whole angel thing?

 

This is pushing it, to be honest.

 

****

 

It doesn’t help that the angel is  _hot_.

Frankly, Clarke is a bit offended, with how the angel seems to be the archetype for those clichés describing heavenly perfection—she’s exactly what someone touched by the divine would look like, all chiseled angles and weaponized jaw lines and compelling green eyes.

She’s the paragon of a celestial being, that’s for sure. In fact, if Clarke were a little bit less jaded, that alone would have been enough for her to accept everything the . . . creature is saying at face value.

 

But as it were, she’s a bit more skeptical about the unknown.

 

****

 

(Even thinking of the word  _angel_  for more than a second at a time really gives Clarke the hives. She can’t even say the word without grimacing like she’d just tasted Octavia’s cooking—which is more than enough sign that it is  _not_  a good thing.)

 

****

 

“My name is—” And then Clarke hears something vaguely symphonic—like strains of violins and pianos and harps, and there’s tinkling of bells and whatnot, and it’s all very baffling but also very, well . . .  _pleasing_  to her ears—and she frowns in obvious confusion.

“I didn’t get that,” Clarke says, quite uselessly.

The  _angel_  sighs. “You’re mortal,” she explains. (Her tone is like the one Clarke remembers her own mother using, when Clarke’s asking about something that didn’t really need explanations at all and was just doing so because she’s fucking recalcitrant. Clarke  _almost_  smiles.) “My real name cannot be heard in a way mortals can understand, for it is in the angelic tongue. The closest you can get to translating it is  _Lexa_.”

 “So . . . is that what I should call you? Lexa?”

“Would that make things easier for you?”

Clarke resists the urge to say that  _nothing_  right now could make  _anything_ easier,  _go to hell_. Instead she just says, “Yeah.”

“In that case,”—the  _angel_  looks at her with those green eyes, almost glowing in the dark of the night—“then yes, Clarke. Call me Lexa.”

 

(She does not dwell on the fact that when Lexa says Clarke’s name, a certain kind of warmth pools deep within her bones.)

 

****

 

Despite her attempts to not care and to steer clear of the green-eyed angel (and whoa, boy, Clarke never thought she’d use that phrase in any way other than as a figure of speech to describe someone so  _goddamn_  beautiful—and look at that, she’s not even trying to be ironic here), Clarke learns things about Lexa.

 

  1. She is the commander of her garrison.



 

“I am the commander of my garrison,” Lexa announces apropos nothing. They are waiting in Raven’s living room for the Blake siblings to return with information about something Clarke can’t be bothered to completely understand.

“Good for you,” says Clarke, raising an eyebrow. Lexa doesn’t seem to get the dig, glancing at her as if she were insane. At this point, Clarke won’t be too surprised if that turned out to be actually true. Clarke just sighs, and asks, “You mean you’re like the leader of the angelic version of the Air Force or something?”

“It means I must be steadfast in my faith,” Lexa answers, her tone matter-of-fact. “The seraphs I lead cannot see in me anything less than absolute loyalty to our Father. I shall obey his will, as I always have, and I shall have no room for doubt.”

 

  1. She has been around for a long, long,  _long_ time.



 

“I set Sodom and Gomorrah aflame and watched Lot’s wife turn into a pillar of salt.” There is something undeniably celestial shimmering in Lexa’s green eyes, now, and Clarke finds herself strangely fascinated by them (more so than usual, but she’s not admitting that— _ever_ ). “I led the large contingent of seraphim who answered the call when Father ordered the plagues of Egypt. Countless firstborns died by my hands. Israel had felt the force of my righteous judgment many a time through the centuries of their disobedience, as I was the one who served them their punishment for their habitual defiance.”

A prickle of trepidation makes itself known along Clarke’s spine. “Your point?” She sounds gruff, the rough edges hiding her uncertainty just the way she’s practiced all these years.

She barely has time to react when Lexa moves so that there is but an inch of space between their faces, and it is only Clarke’s stubbornness that’s keeping her from backing down.

“My point is this, Clarke of the line of Eve,” Lexa says in a voice that seems to resonate in different dimensions—in the past, the present, and the future, held together by this single thread of unwavering belief—and a sense of foreboding has settled over Clarke’s skin, enveloping her in dread she’d really rather not feel. “I am the brimstone and the fire of the Scriptures. I am heavenly fury incarnate. And I shall not let something as paltry an issue as free will stop me from accomplishing my mission.”

And then, because she’s an angelic brat, she’s gone before Clarke gets the chance to fuck her up.

 

  1. She believes love is weakness.



 

“Love is weakness,” Lexa tells her, with all the aloofness that Clarke has come to associate with the angel.

Clarke snorts a laugh. “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?”

“How so?” Lexa looks slighted, but also curious.

“People keep yammering on about how ‘God is love’ and shit like that,” Clarke says, waving her hands to indicate  _the world_  in general. “If God is love and he is the most powerful . . .  _being_  there is, then doesn’t that mean that love’s  _not_  a weakness and is, in fact, the most powerful weapon in existence?”

The look Lexa sends her now is impressed, and there’s a bit of pride in there too (a touch of  _finally_  and  _I knew you have it in you_ ), and it makes Clarke want to throw up everything she’s eaten for the last forty-eight hours. She hurries to add her disclaimer. “Don’t you go all preach-y on me though. I’m not saying I believe this crap because so far, all I know for sure is that your heavenly Father’s an all-around shitty father. I just want to rile you up.”

Lexa merely hums, as if not totally believing her, but there’s a thoughtful look on her face. “You’ve succeeded, in that case.” There’s a quirk in her lips, and Clarke is floored—this is the first time Lexa’s shown anything resembling normal expression. (And  _fuck_ , that smile is going to be Clarke’s goddamn ruin . . . another unintentional irony aside.) “I should, however, point out that my heavenly Father is yours too.”

At that Clarke scoffs. “Yeah, no thanks. I had only one father, and he’s all I needed, until the One Above saw it fit to fucking kill him off.”

This time, it’s Clarke who leaves the angel behind.

 

****

 

On their way to figuring out how to stop the apocalypse, they befriend Lincoln Forest.

Well . . .  _befriend_ implies that some sort of desire to be friends is present in all parties involved, which is a huge fucking lie. They do not have a choice in the matter, and just like everything in Clarke’s life, it just sort of happened.

Lincoln’s a huge guy, taller even than Bellamy, and with those biceps, he could probably bench-press him without breaking a sweat . . . which is also probably why Octavia is so taken with him.

Anyways.

He’s pretty harmless, despite his whole appearance suggesting otherwise. Any danger his muscles might be communicating to the outside world is kind of offset by the kindness in his eyes. He’s like a huge puppy, Clarke thinks. Like, a Bernese. A massive bear puppy, who gets awfully spooked whenever he tunes into the angel radio. To be fair, though, even Clarke would feel spooked if she heard those annoying feathery assholes whispering around her head.

And she’s already got too much in her plate to deal with that, thank you very much—case in point, the infuriating little piece of green-eyed shit standing beside her now.

They have just successfully taken Lincoln away from the mental hospital his family checked him into, in light of his obsessive doodling of apocalyptic scenes—the very ones that Clarke is supposed to stop or something—and his mutterings about angels and demons and the Righteous Woman—the very one that Clarke  _is_.

(So, yeah, no one of them has any choice in being acquainted with this huge man.)

Lexa is telling them that Lincoln is  _dangerous_.

Clarke wants to laugh at that, because the guy is hiding behind  _Octavia_ —a girl roughly a foot shorter than he is. “Lexa, that’s ridiculous,” she says, because honestly,  _it is_. “Look at him—he’s a huge guy but he’s hardly a threat. He’ll probably sooner cry than hurt a single bug. He’s powerless.”

“He’s anything but powerless.” Lexa tilts her head, about to be more irritating than she already is. “He’s actually an angel.”

 

****

 

“Isn’t that some kind of involuntary servitude? That sorta thing really breaks tons of labor laws.”

“You don’t understand,” Lexa says, not getting the sarcasm. “Obeying Father is our greatest joy—it’s . . . it’s our purpose, Clarke.” She swallows hard, and something like doubt flashes in her green eyes. “At least it’s supposed to be.”

She sounds so despondent that Clarke  _actually_  feels sorry for her, but she doesn’t know what to say. How does one comfort angels having an existential crisis, anyway? Clarke hardly understands her  _own_  purpose—stopping Lucifer and the apocalypse notwithstanding—so she really has no clue why Someone (with the capital  _S_ ) would create a whole universe and gajillions of celestial children just to abandon them to tinker with a side project called humankind (or “advanced apes,” as Titus continually refers to them, fuck his bald head).

(It’s a fucked-up universe, apparently.)

“Obey. Serve. The rules are there for a reason, and so long as we abide by them and please Father, then nothing else really matters. It used to be enough.” Lexa turns to her then, and Clarke feels as lost as the angel looks. “But not anymore.”

And Clarke doesn’t know (what  _does_ she know, these days?) what compels her to reach out and tangle her fingers with Lexa’s, offering silent support, but she does so, and Lexa leans in so that their foreheads are touching.

 

(Clarke, like always, does not dwell on what blossoms in her chest, her insides expanding as if she’s gotten her first taste of oxygen and her lungs remembering they’re actually supposed to bring her air.)

(Their lives are already too complicated without the additional inconvenience such things entail.)

 

(And by “such things,” Clarke means  _feelings_.)

(Probably.)

(Fuck.)

 

****

 

There’s a flash of brown in her periphery, and Clarke need not turn her head to see Lexa standing in the hospital room.

“There had been a betrayal,” Lexa says without preamble. “Titus orchestrated the string of angel killings.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s dead.”

Clarke forces the bile down her throat. “Good,” she says.

 

****

 

“They say I broke the first seal.” Clarke’s eyes are closed, but she knows Lexa is nearby. “Is that . . . true?”

She feels Lexa hesitate, and Clarke’s stomach churns with revulsion—for herself. “Yes.”

The self-hate increases tenfold.

 

****

 

“I know not what my siblings are planning or what Father’s will really is,” Lexa says, her words a gentle whisper amidst the storm in Clarke’s mind. “But know that I stand with you, Clarke Griffin.”

 

****

 

“I’m not cut out for this,” Clarke tells a silent room. “I’m no saviour—I’m no Righteous Woman. I’m not . . . I can’t do this. Please”—her voice breaks, embarrassingly—“find someone else.”

 

****

 

Her dreams are filled with angel wings and expansive forests, still and calm.

 

(She knows Lexa has heard her, somehow.)

 

****

 

If it is in some way possible, Clarke would really like to shove an angel blade up Roan’s ass.

 

****

 

He’s making a point, something along the lines of “You’re born and bred hunters, and your instincts are as much a part of you as my Grace is a part of me.”

The asshole looks like a biker-hipster dude with his long hair and tattoos, and Clarke can’t deal with his smugness without wanting to punch his face. So she tries to do so.

 

That is apparently a mistake.

 

****

 

Roan places them in an alternate reality where they’re different versions of themselves.

As in, they are Clarke and Bellamy Woods, Octavia Lake, and Raven Morgan.

Clarke is a successful executive—the company’s name is Skylord, Inc.,  _go figure_ —and Bellamy is her trophy husband. Octavia works as a specialist in Skylord’s IT department, and Raven is Bell’s secretary.

Clarke’s pretty sure Mr. and Mrs. Woods are not into the amorous aspect of their relationship though. If anything, it’s an aspect that they are very much avoiding.

And they are also probably cheating on each other. What’s more, Clarke suspects that they are cheating on each other with the  _same_  woman.

And whoa, okay, yep, when Clarke  _kindly_  asks Ms. Lake to redirect her husband’s e-mail to her account, she sees that he is indeed covertly corresponding with his secretary—the messages eerily similar in tone to the ones Mrs. Woods herself sent Ms. Morgan.

 

When they finally snap out of this nightmare, the three of them can’t look each other in the eye, and Octavia is scared enough not to ask them about it.

 

****

 

The next time she sees Roan, she’s sure to use the blade straight out instead of going for a simple punch. Might save them the horrors of another alternate reality.

 

****

 

“Fuck off,” Clarke grouses, nearly ripping the book’s pages apart. “There’s no way in hell this blonde chick here is me.”

“Well,” the curly-haired girl sitting on the ratty chair regards her with playfulness, “it’s not you, but it’s supposed to be you. Same difference, really.”

“I did not ask for your opinion, so shut the fuck up.”

“At least you’re in them, Clarke,” Bellamy grumbles, flipping through another volume. “I’m  _not_ —well, not counting my role as the team’s brawn, therapist, and historian—which, oh, would you look at that, it’s all I fucking do, apparently.”

“Yeah, trade places with me, hotshot, and be half-naked on some trash novel’s cover and let some fanatics fawn over this goddamn exaggerated boobage.” Clarke’s nose scrunches up, appalled. “My cleavage is nothing like this.”

“Sure, that’s what you’re focusing on,” pipes in Octavia. She waves a volume in the air. “This one’s got a sex scene between me and Linc! I mean, fuck, is privacy not a thing anymore?”

“You had sex with Lincoln?” Bellamy squeaks, dropping the books he’s perusing, and his eyes almost bulge out his head. “What—you—I will  _kill_ him.”

“Oh, come on, Bell, get over yourself,” Clarke says.

Octavia whips out her phone and opens the camera app, ignoring her brother’s sputtered curses, taking shots of the covers. “Raven’s gonna love them. I mean, look, she’s got one where she’s beheading a wendigo with her cane.”

Clarke sighs in exasperation, before rounding in on the author watching them with too much amusement. “You—how did you know all of this?”

“Dreams,” Luna answers simply, looking up at Clarke as she stalks over. “They came to me in dreams.”

“Try again,” Clarke says, a lethality born of forty years in hell sharpening her words.

“Stop right there,” another voice commands, and they all turn to see Lexa among the stacks of books. She looks at peace, as if there’s nothing else she’d rather be doing than stand in a dirty room in the middle of nowhere, the air thick with the smell of weed and week-old beer. Her eyes land on Luna, who looks as if she’s deciding whether or not Lexa is real or just another dream. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Luna Rivers. I have been following your work for a while now.”

“What work?” Clarke says snippily. “These are just piles of wasted paper.”

Luna raises her eyebrows, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but Lexa beats whatever she might have said. “They’re not, Clarke. If anything, these are the most important pieces of literature since the completion of the New Testament.”

“What now?”

Lexa’s dainty fingers pick up a shitty volume, her touch careful, as if what she’s holding is a master’s opus. “These will be the known as the Griffin Gospels, Clarke.” Some sort of reverence rings in her tone, and at their stunned faces, she lets out a patronizing sigh. “Luna Rivers is a prophet of the Lord.”

 

****

 

Of all the things that might have been considered as the threshold for Clarke Griffin dealing with “Shit I Did Not Ask For,” the fact that she has a younger brother does not even come to mind.

But alas, that’s what it is, now.

 

****

 

Clarke regroups with the Blakes and Raven after the whole smack-down with Nia, the Mother of Evil. It goes without saying that the only thing smacked down, aside from Clarke’s twisting intestines, is her pride. Her mouth tastes like sulfur mixed with iron, and entire body is matted with her blood and demonic slime.

What a treat.

Bell’s on his third beer of the hour and Octavia’s scrubbing her arms raw, trying to erase whatever imprint Nia’s goons left behind. Raven’s fiddling with her brace, the clanking of metal on metal providing the closest sound to  _soothing_  that they’re all familiar with.

Of course, even that comes to an end.

The phone rings, and they all freeze. They recognize that it is directed to Ark Clinic’s old main line. Raven’s been working on rebuilding the clinic—she insisted that it’s a thing she’d like to do, since Abby Griffin had been the closest thing to a mother she had, and Clarke’s not the only one who was orphaned  _that night_ —but the phone lines have been only just reconnected. It’s not been officially reopened for business, as far as the hunter community is concerned.

It is with no small amount of unease that Clarke takes the call. “Ark Clinic,” she bites out, terse.

There’s a sound of throat clearing. “Hi,” a boy says, nervousness almost palpable despite the lack of visual cues, “is Dr. Abby Griffin there?”

A pang of sadness hits Clarke right in the gut, followed by a scorching ball of wrath. “She’s not. Who the hell is this?”

(It’s been forty, close to fifty, years, for Clarke, and yet everything still fucking hurts.)

“Uhm, my name is Aden Jacob Hedgren,” the boy answers haltingly. “I’m, uh, her son.”

 

****

 

Yeah, there’s that.

 

****

 

Three years after Jacob Griffin died, Abby Griffin got pregnant on the job. Clarke hazily remembers a time when Abby would disappear for longer periods than usual, and she looked a ton more haggard before coming back for good, the lines on her face appearing deeper, as if she’s burdened with a whole new existence.

Well, in turns out that technically, she was.

 

She named the boy Aden, gave him the middle name Jacob for his clear blue eyes and golden head of hair—so achingly similar to her dead husband’s and her living daughter’s—and then gave him up for adoption.

 

****

 

The point is Clarke’s got a younger brother.

 

****

 

Clarke’s eyes are empty as she looks at the shrunken form of her brother. (Her freaking, actual brother. What the  _fuck_.) She reaches out as if to touch him, to see if he’s real, but she can’t quite muster enough strength for it. Her gaze roves over a face that should have been familiar, should have been beloved, because with his golden hair and the glimpse she had of her cerulean eyes—closed now,  _and she hopes it’s not forever_ —how could she feel anything less than love for this boy?

“You’re my blood,” she murmurs. “Fat lot of good that did you, huh?”

 

She doesn’t notice Octavia and Bellamy watching from outside, jaws tight, eyes holding a world’s worth of sympathy.

 

(And if she does notice, well . . . she’s got no use for that, does she?)

  


 

“Will you save him?”

Lexa is a statue, like those of Greek goddesses of eons past. Now that Clarke thinks of it, Lexa’s probably been lurking about the earth when those were sculpted. “I can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I received my orders. I can’t go against them.”

Clarke doesn’t need to turn around to see that she’s gone.

 

****

 

“Clarke.”

She’s too tired to manage anything more than a jerk of her shoulders, but her heart jumps right to her throat. Clarke doesn’t have the energy to think whether it’s more because she’s surprised or because it’s Lexa.

(Better not  _dwell_  about something problematic.)

“Lexa,” she greets. “Any more orders for me now?”

“I’m sorry.”

Clarke chuckles weakly. “Sure you are.” She’s only just gotten back from destroying a demon nest with Bell and Octavia, and they’re all a little worse for wear. And yet Clarke knows that she’ll still do what Lexa asks.

Lexa offers no response, and Clarke looks beside her to see the angel looking almost completely like how angels are supposed to look—cold, distant, stiff—if not for the softened edges of her normally sharp green eyes. “Are you okay?” Clarke asks, absently lifting a hand to brush an errant strand of brown hair, tucking it behind Lexa’s ear.

“I do not know,” Lexa admits, after a while. “It seems that is the answer to every question asked me, these days.”

“Welcome to being human, then,” Clarke says. “We’re all just cogs in the grand ol’ wheel. We’ve got millennia to reconcile with that fact.”

Green eyes meet blue ones, and as cliché as it sounds, Clarke feels as if she’s baring her soul to this angel—this angel who brought her back from perdition and reconstructed her entire being with a touch of her hands.

Lexa exhales a long breath, and Clarke can feel her radiating warmth. “You are to kill Nia.”

“I already failed at that.”

“The angels will help you.” At Clarke’s dubious look, Lexa offers her a half-grin. “You need not fear. I will be watching.”

Clarke stares at her, wondering if she should do something like grab her by the neck and kiss her.

She’s also wondering if maybe she’s getting delirious because of blood loss or something.

Before she can further debate her own sanity, Lexa leans into her, and Clarke closes her eyes as plump lips press the softest of kisses on her forehead.

“Trust me, Clarke.”

 

****

 

It’s not everything, but it’s a promise.

 

It’s a start, and for now, when the end of the world is just around the corner, that is enough.

 

****

 

There is something to be said about plans: they all fail.

 

****

 

When Clarke slits Nia’s throat, the earth rumbles, and the end arrives.

 

****

 

These are the facts:

  1. Clarke breaks the final seal of the apocalypse when she kills Nia.
  2. Clarke’s family is now consisting of a sarcastic hunter with a braced leg, two siblings who always squabble and keep her awake with their bickering, and two renegade angels of the Lord.
  3. Clarke will do  _anything_ for her family.



 

****

 

Aden Jacob Hedgren wakes up after saying yes to the devil.

 

 

Everyone in the town dies.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look at this mess.
> 
> (To all who have been unfortunate enough to read my multichaptered ASOIAF Clexa fic, I am so sorry for making you wait. I’ll update that once my motivation returned from the war. Ciao!)
> 
> Yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [@eyyogg](https://twitter.com/eyyogg).
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated; feelings fuel everything. :))  
> Ste yuj, fam.


End file.
